He moved through the corridors with measured steps, still raw from the humiliation at the police station. The sting of the officer's extortion lingered—a hollow ache in his chest. Five hundred ballands gone from the twelve hundred Tomas had given him, now he had only seven hundred, barely a fraction of the debt he carried. The remaining bills—two thousand ballands—plus the creeping accommodation fees loomed over him like storm clouds. At the billing counter, he placed the money neatly in front of the clerk.
The woman's expression was flat, almost bored, as if Samuel's desperation were an ordinary inconvenience. She counted the bills with mechanical precision.
"Partial payment accepted," she said without meeting his eyes. "You still owe the rest. Don't forget."
Samuel swallowed the lump in his throat, forcing his jaw to relax. A sharp retort burned on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it down. Every fiber of his being wanted to snap—to yell, to tear into the cold bureaucracy that treated life like a ledger. He couldn't risk it. Not here. Not while his mother's fragile recovery depended on him keeping his head.
As he turned to leave, he caught fragments of conversation in the corridor beyond the counter. Two nurses leaned against the wall, their voices low but sharp enough to pierce his awareness.
"Who's likely to make it through tonight, you reckon?" one said, smirking.
"Depends on the family's pockets," the other replied, chuckling darkly. "Some are worth a bed. Others not so much."
Samuel's hands clenched at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. A surge of fury rose in him—the urge to storm over and tear them down—but he forced it back. He exhaled slowly, letting the tension seep from his shoulders.
He moved to her bedside, seating himself carefully, mindful of the machines that beeped softly in the darkness. She stirred, eyelids fluttering, and Samuel reached for her hand, gripping it gently.
"It's all right," he whispered, though the words felt hollow even to him. "I'm here. I've got you."
The morning sunlight cut across the city, sharp and unforgiving. Samuel's footsteps were deliberate. At the first junction, he stopped, counted on his fingers, then on the back of an old receipt. The numbers were ugly, unyielding. Even after the small hospital deposit, thirteen hundred still stood in front of him like a locked gate.
There was no miracle waiting—only the scraps of their life left behind.
The door groaned when he forced it open. Dust rose in sharp little clouds, stinging his throat. He crouched low, rifling through the heap as though searching a grave.
The sewing machine sat at the bottom, its iron body streaked with rust but still whole. He lifted it with both hands, teeth clenched against the strain, then stacked pans, pots, and the old transistor radio on top—anything that could fetch even a handful of ballands.
Each item he retrieved was a fragment of what had been lost, a tiny foothold in reclaiming some semblance of control.
A voice called out—light, but pointed.
"Well, well. Back so soon? Come to fetch more of your mother's rubbish?"
Samuel froze for a heartbeat, registering the man's presence before allowing himself to move. The man leaned casually—yet deliberately—against the stair railing, a bottle in one hand. His smirk was sharp, predatory, confident that fear would show. A woman lingered beside him, laughing softly, her amusement careless and fleeting. She did not look at Samuel with malice, but as someone being entertained.
Samuel ignored her, focusing on the shed, on the bag he carried.
"Thought you'd learned your lesson last time," the man continued, his voice laced with mockery. "Maybe next time I should teach you a real one."
Samuel's jaw tightened. Tension coiled in his limbs like steel, words pressing against his restraint. His eyes remained fixed on the shed, on the sewing machine, the jars, the other items. He had come to reclaim what was his, and he did not yield.He stayed alert, aware, deliberate—letting the man believe he held power over the moment, while Samuel maintained control over his actions.
The man stepped forward, smirk widening."Careful. Don't want to hurt yourself carrying all that junk, do we?"
Samuel adjusted the bag, steadying the items, and met the man's gaze evenly. There was no reply, no show of emotion beyond quiet determination. His anger simmered beneath the surface, restrained and focused. This encounter would not grant the man satisfaction.
The woman shifted uneasily, sensing the tension rising. She glanced at the man, then at Samuel, unsure, silent.
Samuel finished loading the bag. Each movement was precise. Each step measured. He did not look back as he moved away from the shed and the stairs, carrying the items that represented both memory and survival.
The man remained at the bottom of the stairs, a lingering presence, but Samuel felt a flicker of quiet strength. He had faced the taunts, endured them without losing himself, and emerged unbroken.
By noon, he was moving through the backstreet markets, the burden carried like a penance. Stall after stall met him with flat eyes. The first trader poked at the sewing machine, scoffed, and offered a sum so insulting Samuel nearly walked away on the spot—but he couldn't.
The same dance repeated: haggling where only one side held power, each item shaved down, cut to the bone, until nodding was the only option left and pocketing the coins the only relief.
When he finally tallied the day's yield, his palm closed around six hundred and fifty ballands. More than nothing. Far from enough.
That night, the ward had thinned of visitors. The quiet was pierced only by the slow, rhythmic beeping of machines and the muted shuffle of nurses passing by. Samuel sat in the hard plastic chair at his mother's side, arms folded, his body slumped forward as though gravity itself had singled him out.
He unlocked his phone, thumb hovering as the banking app loaded. The numbers glowed back at him, sterile and merciless.
17.42 balance.
That was all he had left after pawning half their life, after draining every pocket he had once called savings. A number that mocked him—so small it was useless against the debt hanging over them.
By the end, nearly everything was gone. All the nights of grease-stained hands, the hustles, the shortcuts, the long walks home—reduced to a single stack meant for doctors who wouldn't look him in the eye.
He looked at his mother. She looked peaceful, almost—but he knew better. Peace cost money in this place. Peace had a price tag, one he could not yet cover.
His hand tightened around the phone until his knuckles whitened. The app timed out, the screen going black, his own reflection staring back at him—hollow-eyed, sleepless, stretched thin.
The hospital had made itself clear: balance cleared in full, or nothing moved forward. No compromises. No humanity. Just numbers and receipts.
Samuel leaned back, eyes stinging. He told himself not to cry—not here, not in front of her—but the thought of being one late payment away from losing her made something tremble deep inside him.
He exhaled slowly and clasped her hand in his. It was warm, frail, but real. He held on as though, by gripping it hard enough, he could anchor her to the world until he found a way to pull them out of this abyss.